


not the smartest way to start my night

by ceruleanVulpine



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, it's not explicitly shippy but they do fight a lot, mad about ed's inconsistent characterization 2k18, six hours is a long truce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 02:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13626900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleanVulpine/pseuds/ceruleanVulpine
Summary: Ed gets two drinks. One is for his new plan, the other for camouflage. When he comes back to the single rickety table by the window, Oswald is looking around with an expression of mild horror. “This place isterrible.”“Yes. Psychological warfare. Also, it was close.”---Ed has a plan. Oswald pushes his luck. (Six hours is a long time for a truce; why not chat?) (There are so, so many reasons not to chat.)Set immediately after 3x19.





	not the smartest way to start my night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuckyDiceKirby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/gifts).



“I suppose we’ll see.” 

“I suppose so!” 

Ed steps backwards, carefully, keeping his eyes on Oswald. Then he turns his back, although his nerves start up a jangling chorus of _danger danger danger_ until he forces himself to be calm. Take your pick of literal or metaphorical, and Oswald’s had plenty of chances to stab him in the back in the last hour; Ed has to concede that his word means … something. 

Not _too_ much. Part of him wants to fall back easily into trusting his former friend, but that part is a weak idiot and does not get a vote. Oswald wants to kill him, and he wants to kill Oswald — properly this time, must be more thorough — and the farther they get from each other in the next five hours, the better. 

The uneven footsteps behind him are coming closer, not moving away. 

Ed spins on his heel. “What is it now?” he growls. “Going to stab me after all?” But there’s the knife, still lying in the street, and there’s Oswald, smiling like the cat who got the cream. Bird who got the worm. Similes aside, that smile puts his back up. 

“I know questions are your schtick now, Ed, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be curious,” Oswald says, kicking at the crowbar Ed dropped. “What did I miss while I was, hm, away? How _is_ this life of crime treating you? Where exactly were you planning on going to ground?” 

Ed does not point out that he has never known Oswald to be especially curious about anything that didn’t directly involve him; he supposes Oswald still thinks that Ed’s personal life belongs in that category. He rubs at his eyes. “If I know you’re following me,” he says, quite reasonably, “I’m not going to reveal anything you can use. Go home.” 

Oswald takes another step forward, overbalances, reaches out to steady himself — Ed catches his wrist roughly. (At least the ghost hadn’t tried to _touch_ him.) He can’t tell if Oswald is still half-drugged or just suicidally stupid, but either way, they do have an agreement. Violence is not a productive response to this situation. 

“I know,” Oswald says, regretfully, like a child caught in a lie. “But, honestly, you should see your face.” 

Ed shoves him away in an admirably pacifistic fashion. Oswald stumbles back, laughing, and he’s still laughing as Ed stalks away down the alleyway, cleaning blood off his glasses. 

\--- 

It’s not a good bar. It is, to Ed’s disgust, the kind of place where you might go looking for Harvey Bullock. (A memory snaps into focus, unbidden: folding himself into a sticky green vinyl booth at a disastrous welcome party, Harvey clapping him on the back and saying _relax, forensics guy, there’s not gonna be a pop quiz_.) But no one inside seems likely to care if two men with a suspicious resemblance to the former mayor and his former chief of staff walk in at half past midnight, still flecked with red. 

Ed gets two drinks. One is for his new plan, the other for camouflage. When he comes back to the single rickety table by the window, Oswald is looking around with an expression of mild horror. “This place is _terrible_.” 

“Yes. Psychological warfare. Also, it was close.” 

“On the plus side,” says Oswald, leaning across the table with a mad grin, “plenty of easily breakable glass things, and you know how I love those.” 

“Don’t be absurd. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it outside, and not in here, where there are …” Ed narrows his eyes and indicates the bar. “Witnesses.” 

They survey the other patrons. There’s a man slumped over the bar who looks like he might not notice if you attacked _him_ , let alone anyone else. The bartender is cleaning a glass under a flickering light, aggressively uninterested. 

Well, that’s as good a cue as any to change the subject. Ed clears his throat and sets Oswald’s glass in front of him with a flourish. 

“If this is you trying to poison me, it’s not subtle.” 

Ed folds his hands in front of him and fixes Oswald with a wide smile. “No. You still have four hours and thirty-seven minutes.” 

Oswald looks at him blankly, then sighs, falling back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You want me to ask you about your plan, don’t you.” 

“Your drinking habit,” says Ed, in his best _talking the mayor into doing what’s good for him_ voice, “is embarrassing, it is easy to exploit, and it makes you significantly more emotionally vulnerable, which you do not need any help with.” He ticks off each point on his fingers as he talks. “Now, if you are intoxicated, maybe you’ll be willing to listen to me, or maybe someone in this horrible establishment will steal your wallet and throw you back in the river, which, at the moment, I would settle for. And here is a perfect illustration of everything I have _tried_ to tell you, Oswald: I’ve made my intentions clear, but of course you’re offended because I said you were emotionally vulnerable, so you—”

“Is this a fucking riddle, Ed?” Oswald says, and drinks. 

\---

There are unforeseen problems with this plan. The first is how much Oswald _talks_. 

“I used to just run a nightclub,” he says, in tones of deep melancholy. “Why didn’t I stick to that?” 

Ed sets his glass down on the table with determined precision. The second problem is that listening to Oswald was intolerable sober. The third is that, as a rule, he doesn’t drink very much, and he’s been caught a little off guard by the effects. But it’s fine. He’s certain he has the upper hand. 

“You have never been happy with what you have because of your _unfathomable_ need for validation,” he says, with feeling. 

Oswald puts his head in his hands. “Do you remember when I ran a nightclub?” 

“No,” Ed says. Oswald looks up at him, frowning, so Ed gives up on valiantly shining a light on his character defects and clarifies, “I was not a person with a deep personal experience of Gotham’s underworld at the time.” 

“That’s true.” Oswald laughs. “That is true. Remember when we met?” 

“When you fell on me in the woods and begged for my help?” 

“No-oo,” says Oswald, baring his teeth in a smile. “The first time. Come on, Edward … Nygma, I know you remember.” The pause is an affectation, a mocking echo, and of course Ed remembers, it was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in weeks. He’d meant to tell Jim Gordon, although, thinking back, he never found the right moment. He presses his fingertips into his eyes and wills himself not to snap back. 

“Were you happy to have the chance to work there?” Oswald asks, voice dripping with pity. “I mean, could you actually tell they didn’t want you?” 

Ed tips his head back. “You can say whatever you want. I’m not that man anymore.” 

“Fine, I will. You were wasted on the GCPD and you didn’t even know it. All those smarts —” and he tries to tap Ed on the forehead, but Ed has the height advantage and Oswald is not at his most coordinated — “and all you wanted was a pat on the back from the boys in blue, right? And Miss Kringle, obviously.” 

Ed starts towards him, but Oswald holds up his hands and says, hurriedly, “May she rest in peace, it’s just … you know they were never gonna like you, right, Ed? They’re not even scared of you now.” 

“I kidnapped the acting captain. _And_ the mayor.” 

“Sure. Okay. You should reconsider the hat.” Oswald visibly gathers his thoughts, and when he speaks again it’s slow and determined. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve got people calling you now. It doesn’t. You’re the same person —” 

“Oswald,” Ed says, warning. 

He’s gathering momentum, and volume, as he goes on. “— and _no one_ is scared of you because they can see how hard you’re trying, with the hat and the suit and the stupid riddles —” 

“Stop it.” 

“— and you don’t even believe it yourself, do you? You’re too smart for that—” 

“Shut up,” Ed says, loudly enough that the bartender glances over at them. 

Oswald throws himself back in his chair, looking satisfied. “Give up,” he says. “That’s my advice. Stop trying to make them care, because they never will, because _they_ are the idiot bullies on the playground and _you_ —” He bangs the table, and their glasses jump. “Are a freak. Like me.” 

“I’m nothing like you,” Ed says. Oswald snorts. 

Ed is very tired. He wants to start yelling; he wants to be somewhere else; he wants his friend back, and he hates it, and he hates him. He stands up to get another drink. 

\--- 

A train rattles by outside, clanging and throwing unsteady stripes of light across the table. Ed has commandeered and methodically disassembled several pens, laying out ink cartridges and bits of plastic casing in neat lines in front of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Oswald says. 

A tiny spring slips out of Ed’s fingers and _ping_ s off into a dusty corner. He stares after it and considers some of life’s great questions, such as: how did he get here? why is he doing this? what in God’s name made Oswald Cobblepot this way? He does have an answer for the last one, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating. 

The subject of this inquiry knocks his knuckles on the table. “Don’t ignore me.” 

Ed sighs. “What, exactly, would you like to apologize for?” he asks, as evenly as he can. 

“As if you could possibly not know —”

“I can only be given, not taken or bought; the sinner needs me, the saint does not. What am I?” He pauses. “Have I told you that one before?” 

“ _Really_?”

“It’s ‘forgiveness,’” Ed says, with only token irritation. He hears Oswald’s breath catch, and concentrates on nudging the pieces of the dismantled pen into a better parallel. Steady. “Come on, Oswald. If you want someone to forgive you, it’s better to be specific.” 

He looks up, and smiles faintly. 

Oswald stares at him for a long moment, looking lost. Finally he says, again, “I’m sorry,” and then, “We had something good and I ruined it.” 

Ed pushes himself to his feet. “We did. You did. Are you happy now?” 

Oswald blinks up at him, jaw working, tears welling in his eyes. Ed wants to laugh at himself, for ever thinking he could need this man’s advice on being _frightening_. He smiles, sincerely this time, and turns away. 

Then Oswald breaks his glass on the table and goes for Ed’s back. His first swing goes wide. 

\--- 

“Stay — stop it,” Ed says, swaying on his feet.

Oswald jerks up towards him, panting, fighting against the grip on the back of his neck. Ed frowns and leans more of his weight into Oswald’s hand where it’s pinned on the table, still curled around the broken glass, and Oswald cries out. 

“You’re pathetic. Stop it.” 

“Go ahead and kill me,” Oswald snarls into the tabletop.

Ed sighs. “No,” he says. “This is just embarrassing. And what would I tell Barbara, that I took you out for drinks and cut your throat while you were incoherent?” 

“Barbara would love that — _ow_ —”

“She would,” Ed agrees. “Still. No. Don’t you have any sense of the dramatic?” 

Oswald’s ragged laugh collapses into a whine of pain halfway through. “I hate you.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Ed says. Then he closes his hand in Oswald’s hair and slams his head into the table. 

He steps back neatly and watches the other man slide to the floor. 

“Get some sleep,” he says. “Try again tomorrow.” 

Blood is pooling in Oswald’s palm. Ed plucks a napkin from the bar and fastidiously cleans the blood off his own hands, then balls it up and drops it. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises.

Then he walks out, whistling to himself. He doesn’t look behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I fully blame sarah luckydicekirby for this nonsense, because we joked about a fic idea and then discovered twelve hours later that we [had both started writing it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627014) (go read hers, it's excellent). Much like Ed, I have no idea how I got here or why I am doing this, but I've watched three seasons of this terrible show in the last ... three weeks, oh my god, send help. 
> 
> The title is from the spectacularly tonally inappropriate but extremely funny "You Told The Drunks I Knew Karate" by Zoey Van Goey.


End file.
